


Good People and Death Eaters

by BitterlyAlice



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Anxiety Attacks, Biting, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Coming Untouched, Draco Malfoy is a Brat, Draco is a slut, Draco is somewhat reformed, Drinking, Freckles, I'm Not Ashamed, Insult Kink, M/M, Neville likes it, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Praise Kink, Rimming, Shameless Smut, Top Neville Longbottom, Under-negotiated Kink, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, and deeply ashamed, but maybe Neville is?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:41:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24168277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BitterlyAlice/pseuds/BitterlyAlice
Summary: “You are very steady,” Draco says approvingly, squeezing the muscle of Longbottom’s arm.  “Very solid.  I expect it comes from being a terrible flyer.  Feet firmly planted.”“You’re kind of a brat,” Longbottom tells him, and the low, approving tone of his voice makes Draco squirm.Draco Malfoy is adjusting to his new reality (social pariah, purveyor of muggle home remedies, miserable, broke, but at least sexually liberated and no longer living with a homicidal madman!) when a one-night stand with a man he used to bully upends everything.  Angst ensues!
Relationships: Neville Longbottom/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 16
Kudos: 152





	1. Allergic Reactions

**Author's Note:**

> I'm super new to the fanfiction game (writing, anyway. I've been reading it for...a depressingly long time), so...be kind, please! Updates will likely be sporadic.  
> ON GRIEF HIATUS. I likely won't be updating this until spring - I'm dealing with the aftermath of a death in my family. Thanks for your patience.

When Draco hears the double doors open and the burst of laughter behind him, he doesn’t immediately connect the noise to the way his throat constricts. In fact, his first thought is that he’s having a reaction to his blended drink. “Is there strawberry in this?” he asks the bartender, gesturing to the glass between them. But then the laughter stops – just as it is dawning on him how familiar it is – and one of the voices separates from the others.  
  
“Is that _Malfoy?”_  
  
And now Draco can feel the tension spreading down into his chest, and he knows what’s happening. Guilt, it turns out, manifests much the same way as an allergic reaction.  
  
“Oh for heaven’s sake, Ron, shut up.”  
  
This voice belongs to Hermione Granger. It’s been over a year since he heard it, over a year since he sat in chains before the Wizengamot and listened to her recount that day at the manor, and he could live the rest of his life without hearing it again. Draco knows his back has gone stiff and straight, but he doesn’t turn. There are at least five of them, from the ruckus they were making a moment ago, and he knows the first laugh was Potter.  
  
Already he can feel a shift in the room. A moment ago he was anonymous, but their arrival has changed all that. Unfriendly stares are fixed on him from all corners of the room. The bartender, who is a solid, fresh-faced lad named Eric, and who grins whenever Draco wraps his lips around a straw, is flushed a furious red.  
  
“Why should I, though? We should be able to go out and celebrate without looking at his pointy little face! Come on, Harry, back me up!”  
  
“I don’t care if he’s here,” Potter’s voice is low, like he’s trying not to draw attention to himself. It makes Draco sneer – he’s never met anyone who loved the limelight more. He can see how this will go, and he is willing himself to retain _some_ dignity, to just get up and leave before the other patrons mob him, but he’s frozen.  
  
“Come on, you great lumps. What’re you doing blocking the door, do you want us to freeze solid out here?” The female Weasley sounds cheerful, and Draco can hear her forcing her way into the pub. “Oh, blimey. Is Ron having a fit? We could just go somewhere else.”  
  
“I’m not leaving because of him!”  
  
The tone of Ronald’s voice prompts Eric to slam down the pint glass in his hand, making Draco jump, and storm around the bar to seize Draco’s arm. Draco...doesn’t much like being grabbed these days. He can feel his whole body go stiff with horror.  
  
“Don’t know when you sneaked in,” the bartender is saying loudly, as if he hasn’t been serving Draco a heavy dose of flirtation with his drinks for the last two hours, “but we don’t let Death Eater scum like you in here.” He hauls at Draco’s elbow, hard enough that Draco slips off the barstool and crashes rather against the bar. He’s had too much to drink, and is too frightened, to handle this with grace. It had all been going so _well_. He’d almost been feeling like a normal human being. And maybe that’s the problem; maybe this is his punishment for daring to forget.  
  
“Let go of me,” he hisses. “I can see myself out, you buffoon”  
  
“It’s _fine_ ,” Granger is saying from behind them, distress in her voice. “Honestly, we don’t mind if he’s here. We’ll just sit on the other side there. There’s plenty of room! Ron, stop shushing me!”  
  
The hand around his arm is far too tight, and it’s pulling him towards those voices. Draco fights with the swelling fear in his stomach and tries to pull away, tries mindlessly and desperate, but Eric – who five minutes ago speared a cherry on a tiny plastic wand and leaned over the bar to feed it to Draco – just jerks at him harder, and Draco can smell smoke. He always does, when he feels trapped. That smell means a panic attack is coming on, and he can’t have one of those in public. He can’t. He keeps his eyes desperately on the floor as they approach the group of Griffindors, focusing on their anonymous feet. Dragon leather boots, some staid black flats that have to belong to Granger, _sneakers_ , for Merlin’s sake. And then one pair – scuffed black dress shoes that have seen better decades – detaches itself from the group.  
  
“Go on,” he hears the owner of them say, “Have a seat, everyone, I’ll sort it out. Really.”  
  
The shoes stop in front of Draco and Eric, firmly between them and the door, and Draco feels his eyes pulled upwards.  
  
It’s Neville Longbottom. Of course it’s bloody Neville Longbottom.  
  
The man’s robes are of a decent quality, but worn. Draco can sympathize with that – he hasn’t bought a new shirt in almost two years, and even the most delicate of cleaning charms create some wear and tear. The man underneath the robes, though, is solid, decently muscled, with soft brown hair that curls sweetly behind his ears, and just enough freckles to ensure he won’t ever look truly menacing. Not that he’s trying.  
  
Longbottom looks good. It’s disorienting. He’s lost the chubby, hunted look he used to have. Draco is so used to seeing fear and misery on this face that by contrast it seems to be glowing with health. And confidence.  
  
When did this happen? Draco remembers noticing a change in Longbottom during their dreadful seventh year, but he’d been too...well, too busy, to appreciate it. Now he wonders how he managed to pay attention to the impending doom. This man is _beautiful_.  
  
The rest of Longbottom’s group is shuffling away, towards a table at the back of the pub, determinedly not looking at Draco. Except Ronald Weasley, of course, whose neck is craning back as the mudblood – as Granger – hauls him forward.  
  
“Hello Draco,” this new version of Longbottom is saying.  
  
Wide, brown eyes meet Draco’s. They’re still a bit gently cow-like, above the newly muscled jaw, and Draco finds that soothing. He focuses on the eyes and the freckles and tries to swallow, but his throat is still tight and dry. Eric looks between the two of them, uncertain, and Longbottom, possessed of that infuriating new confidence, rests a hand on Draco’s shoulder and turns him gently back towards the bar. Draco can feel resistance in the hand on his elbow, wonders for a hysterical second whether he’s going to be in the middle of a tug-of-war, and then is released to Longbottom’s tender ministrations.  
  
“My friends will be wanting drinks at the back,” Longbottom says over their shoulders. “Double engagement, you know...lots to celebrate. We’ll just catch up at the bar for a minute before I go join them.” He dips his voice lower and says to Draco, “Just keep walking. I won’t let you fall.” Draco realizes that Longbottom is holding onto his elbow now, not the way the bartender was, but gently, from beneath. Because Draco is in danger of falling, actually.  
  
They take the few steps to the bar, and Longbottom somehow deposits Draco onto his stool, and hops up on the one beside. He sniffs suspiciously at the dregs of Draco’s drink, then cheerfully knocks back the last mouthful and points his wand at it.  
  
“ _Aguamenti_ ,” he says, and it fills with clear water. He pushes the glass towards Draco, who takes it and raises it shakily to his mouth. The water tastes faintly of lemon, and he’s surprised Longbottom knows how to do that.  
  
“I didn’t ask you to interfere in my affairs,” Draco says. He hates the tight, haughty sound of his voice. When he’s frightened he reverts to a spoiled eleven year old, and that version of Draco Malfoy does not belong in this world. No version of Draco Malfoy belongs in this world. Invisibility is his best defence, and they’ve blown that for him.  
Longbottom doesn’t respond, and Draco gulps more water, discomfited.  
  
“And you finished my drink,” he hears himself say.  
  
But Longbottom laughs. He laughs easily, low and bashful, and the laugh curls up inside Draco’s stomach. “I’ll buy you a new one,” Longbottom says, and waves to Eric, who’s returning with an empty tray from the table of Griffindors. “We’d like two more of these, please.”  
  
The bartender doesn’t make eye contact with Draco when he slides the two slushy pink drinks across the bar.  
  
“I like this,” Longbottom says, as they sip. “There’s Argonian mint mixed in. Did you know that helps – ”  
  
“With the hangover,” Draco says. “I’m surprised _you_ know.”  
  
“With dehydration and stomach flu, I was going to say,” Longbottom says. He’s grinning, and Draco can see a hint of the awkward boy from Hogwarts in that grin. One slightly crooked tooth. It’s endearing. Shit.  
  
“Why are you sitting here?” Draco asks when they’re halfway down the drinks. “Didn’t you say there was some kind of celebrating?”  
  
Eric is gone again, but he keeps his voice low.  
  
“They all got engaged,” Longbottom says. “Ron and Hermione and Ginny and Harry. I mean...Ron’s been asking for ages, apparently, but I guess Hermione finally said yes. Anyway, we’ve been all over London already. I don’t think they’ll notice if I slip off. And I’m not saying you needed rescuing,” he continues, jostling Draco’s shoulder with his own, as if they’re _friends_ , “But I didn’t like how he grabbed you. You looked trapped. It’s the least I can do to make sure you’re doing alright. Are you?”  
  
“Doing alright?” this conversation is surreal. Draco shakes his head, then realizes that it’ll be taken as an answer to the question, and feels it’s too honest. “Yes,” he says. “I have my own flat here, actually. And I’ve found some work at a health shop a few streets down. That’s kind of a muggle potions shop, but of course they don’t know anything about...” He trails off, aware suddenly of how this might sound. He clears this throat. “I don’t handle any of the wares,” he says, carefully. “Just...I do some numbers for them, if you must know. And I run errands. No magic whatsoever.”  
  
This isn’t quite the truth. Draco has been known to add Pepper-Up or Cure-All to some of the tinctures when he’s alone in the shop. It bothers him to see the tosh some of these people pass off as medicine. But he doesn’t want Longbottom thinking he’s been poisoning the muggles.  
  
“I don’t,” he says, then tries again. “I wouldn’t...I’m in no position to hurt anyone, Longbottom.” His face is hot, but he can’t lose this job. He can’t.  
  
Longbottom is smiling again. “I just meant,” he says, “to ask if you’re alright now.”  
  
Draco blinks.  
  
Usually, when things get bad enough that he’s smelling smoke, he’s pretty well got to resign himself to an evening spent shaking on the musty chesterfield in his little flat, trying to work out how best to breathe. But...  
  
“I feel alright,” he says cautiously. Something about Longbottom’s appearance, and this absurd and embarrassing rescue, seems to have derailed Draco’s trauma response.  
  
As soon as he realizes this, of course, it occurs to him what a vulnerable position he is in; how much at Longbottom’s mercy he is.  
  
“And what about you?” he asks loftily, hearing the disdain in his voice and hating it. “You’ve clearly done well for yourself since Hogwarts.” He glances up and down, eyes lingering on the stain by Longbottom’s lapel, the faded patch of fabric just above his belt. He’s being an ass, but that’s better than vulnerable. In a second the other man is going to leap up from his seat and storm away to join his friends, and Draco will be ejected summarily into the street. He’d rather make that happen on his own terms.  
  
Longbottom, though...responds as if Draco is being perfectly, unerringly polite.  
  
“You know, it’s been brilliant,” he says. “I don’t have a proper job at all, but I was in Alaska for six months earlier this year. They’d had some trouble with a lichen causing hallucinations up in the Blackstone Mountains, and I...well, I happened to meet this druid who was off on a week long canoe trip to study them. I said I’d be camp cook if he agreed to take me along.” Longbottom is blushing furiously beneath his freckles, and Draco is sure there’s more to the story than he’s saying. “I suppose you’ve been all over the world,” the other man says now.  
  
“Well,” Draco acknowledges, “Not _America_ , though.”  
  
“I’d never been anywhere,” Longbottom says. “But it was brilliant. I even learned to cook a bit.” He knocks back the last of his drink and raises a finger to Eric for another, then grins at Draco. “And nobody makes me do anything at all like potions.”  
  
“You were rubbish at potions,” Draco says, because he’s determined, apparently, to remind this charming young man of what a prat he’s always been.  
  
But Neville – Longbottom, Draco corrects himself – is unflappable. “Do you want to hear about my bear encounter?” he asks Draco.  
  
Draco does.  
  
It somehow gets very late very quickly. Over the course of the evening Draco has insults Longbottom in just about every possible way, and receives at least three direct compliments. One of them is about his hair. It has become apparent that Longbottom _likes_ Draco to be a bit of an ass, and Draco...Draco laps up the approval.  
  
Most of the people he fucks these days – and by this point he’s fairly sure fucking is where they’re headed now – get off on seeing how far he’s fallen. They like to make him crawl, a bit, like to dirty him up. Draco doesn’t mind that, exactly; he knows by now what a worthless shit he is. But the way Longbottom reacts to his snobbery and sass is like a hot bath. Draco wants to sink into it.  
  
They’re both a bit drunk. Halfway into a ridiculous conversation about, Draco thinks, the properties of Devil’s Snare, and whether it can be domesticated, the rowdy group of Griffindors piles away into the night, sparing not a glance towards the bar.  
  
“So Ginerva Weasley got him, did she?” Draco says. “I didn’t think she would. It’s a tragedy.”  
  
“Is it.” Longbottom doesn’t sound amused, the way he does when Draco insults _him_. Fine, alright. He’s joking, anyway.  
  
“Only because of the children,” Draco says, with dignity. “Think of their hair! Unmanageable. And of course Potter’s always been annoyingly fit.” He isn’t sure that this last bit is relevant, exactly, but it’s certainly interesting to see the way Longbottom’s eyes widen.  
  
“You find Harry attractive?” he asks, and it occurs to Draco that perhaps he has made a mistake.  
  
“Only objectively,” he says. “Shall we go as well?”  
  
Longbottom’s lips are pursed, like he’s trying not to smile. Draco wants to lick his way into them, wants to feel when that tension relaxes, wants to get his tongue against Neville’s and coax it back into his own mouth. He’s going to do such lovely things to this boy.  
  
“Sure,” Longbottom says. “It’s getting late, isn’t it?”  
  
“Very,” Draco replies. He holds on to Longbottom’s elbow as he climbs down off his barstool, which seems very tall indeed. He keeps holding that elbow as Longbottom pays for their drinks (with a little sideways glance at Draco, as if he expects an objection – Draco does not ever object when people buy him drinks) and they walk into the cold night.  
  
The pub opens onto an alley, and Draco pulls Longbottom a little further into it, away from the main streets. This is a good idea. He knows it is. Longbottom hasn’t shaken his hand off, hasn’t asked where they’re going, hasn’t demanded Draco explain himself. He just looks...happy.  
  
They stop in a little alcove set into the brick. It’s not exactly clean back here, but Draco isn’t fastidious. Not these days. “You are very steady,” Draco says approvingly, squeezing the muscle of Longbottom’s arm. “Very solid. I expect it comes from being a terrible flyer. Feet firmly planted.”  
  
“You’re kind of a brat,” Longbottom tells him, and the low, approving tone of his voice makes Draco squirm. He wants to ask, _do you like it?_ Wants to say that he can be good, too, if that’s what Longbottom wants.  
  
“At least I know how to care for my clothing,” Draco says instead, and raises his hands to straighten the other man’s collar. He misjudges a little, and has to clutch at those broad shoulders as he sways.  
  
Longbottom, grinning, puts his hands on Draco’s hips and steadies him. He is grinning, showing that one crooked tooth. He pushes Draco slowly away, and then seems to change his mind at the last minute and doesn’t let go, walks them two slow steps further until Draco’s back hits the wall. This is usually when he would feel trapped, when he’d panic, but Draco instead feels a fission of excitement burn through him.  
  
“You think you’re hot stuff, don’t you?” Longbottom asks. Their bodies are not quite touching, Longbottom’s strong arms holding them firmly apart, but Draco arches away from the wall, brings their chests and hips into contact. He’s a few inches shorter than Longbottom, and much slighter, and he likes the way he feels almost frail in the other man’s grip.  
  
“I’m more interested in what _you_ think I am,” he says.  
  
Longbottom looks taken aback for a second, and then quite stricken. They sway there for a second, Draco wondering if he’s misjudged this whole evening, wondering if he should twist away and make his apologies, and then...Longbottom leans forward. He pushes his body flush into Draco’s, pressing him hard against the wall.  
  
“Oh, what the hell,” he says, and then his broad mouth is on Draco’s.


	2. You Charmed the Heart Right Out of Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _Neville laughs. It sounds a little unhinged.  
>   
>  Draco wipes the back of his hand across his sloppy, vicious mouth. He tries to get up, but he’s actually a little dizzy, and has to sit down on the edge of the bed. “I can go,” he says. “I didn’t mean...” but he doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. He _did_ mean to bite Neville’s cock. He meant it very much.  
>   
> _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the tags! I have added some new ones. This...is just 5000 words of gratuitous sex. I don't know. Sorry if I made it weird. Also, there is some poorly negotiated (or just not really negotiated at all) kink in this chapter. Our boys are both enjoying themselves, but in real life it's best practice to ask before you bite or smack anybody.

Longbottom’s little cottage is the polar opposite of Draco’s apartment: it’s a cheerful, catastrophic mess. The building itself is squeezed between a Tesco Express and a small hat shop, and although the city’s pigeons seem well acquainted with its rooftop garden, the local muggles walk by without a second glance. It’s two storeys high and cylindrical, which makes it look like someone’s removed the smallest tower from Malfoy Manor (that would have been the spire above the nursery, and even that was roomier) and plopped it down on the pavement. Poison ivy grows lush and green all up the dirty stone walls. In clay pots along the path are tall bulbous plants with vicious looking spikes and spines, and at least one mandrake (its pot is opaque glass, but Draco can clearly see a small fist pressing through the dirt against the side). Even the smoke curling out of the chimney is faintly green.  
  
The whole scene, Draco thinks, would not be out of place in Knockturn Alley, except that the door to this poison cottage is painted a bright, welcoming yellow, and as they walk up the path a dangling bulb on one of the plants bursts in a spray of pink mist, and the unmistakable strains of Celestina Warbeck’s _You Charmed the Heart Right Out of Me_ hangs in the air until the droplets dissipate.  
  
“What the fuck,” Draco says. He’s too drunk for this, he thinks. He’d been expecting a quick fuck in the alley, to be honest, but Longbottom had kissed him so languorously that he’d quite forgotten himself, and when the other man had said, all husky and rolling one of Draco’s earlobes between gentle fingers, “I’m taking you home now,” Draco had simply nodded.  
  
“Those are the giant singing succulents,” Longbottom says with dignity. He is also drunk. “I bought them off a hag in the Cotswolds, and they’ve really taken off. I’ve been trying to wean them onto something a little more modern, but so far no luck. Here’s the door.”  
  
Draco lets himself be tugged through the aggressively yellow door, into a cozy room that is not even slightly bigger on the inside.  
  
In the centre of the room is a sort of kitchen island that clearly doubles as a table, with two tall chairs set against it. There’s a cloak draped over the back of one chair, and in front of it sits a half-drunk cup of cold tea in which bobs an unlikely orange water lily. Piles of books take up the rest of the surface. Most of them are to do with herbology, but...  
  
“Is that a muggle detective novel?” Draco asks, horrified.  
  
Longbottom, with a politeness that seems ingrained, is taking Draco’s coat. He flushes happily as he shoves it onto a hook. “It is! How do you even know about detective novels?”  
  
“My supervisor reads them,” Draco says. “But she,” he continues pointedly, “is in fact a muggle.”  
  
Past the kitchen island, with its haphazard heaps of literature, there is a small hearth hearth set into in the wall, next to a rickety spiral staircase. A cauldron is suspended above the flames, and the liquid inside – Draco thinks it’s just soup – simmers gently. The brick chimney is the only part of the wall not covered in vines, and although Herbology wasn’t Draco’s strongest subject, he is adept enough to know that many of the plants he’s seeing are poisonous, carniverous, and/or just plain mean. It smells like a greenhouse. He can already tell that the humidity is going to wreak havoc on the charms holding his hair in place.  
  
Draco is still gaping at the room when Longbottom turns him gently around, walks him backwards until they hit the kitchen counter, works a thigh between Draco’s legs, and proceeds to kiss him so thoroughly that Draco just...gives in to it. He grinds filthily against the strong muscle there, and decides not to mind that the man kissing him lives like a garden gnome.  
  
Longbottom’s kisses are entirely unselfconscious. He kisses Draco like the other man is a perfect meal – to be shamelessly consumed and enjoyed. One of his hands is on Draco’s ass, fingers curled into the fabric of his trousers, and the other is cupping Draco’s jaw, turning it firmly to the angle he seems to want, so as to more easily ravish Draco’s mouth.  
  
Draco clings. His own hands are fisted in Longbottom’s shirt, twisting and clutching. He’s desperately hard, has in fact been rutting against Longbottom’s thigh for the last few minutes, but trapped as he is between kitchen counter and the immovable force that is his former classmate, he can’t get the friction he so badly wants. They kiss and they kiss and they kiss, Longbottom behaving as if Draco’s mouth is a sweet that he’s sucking the sugar off of, and it doesn’t take very long before this is just...unacceptable.  
Why hasn’t it escalated yet? The counter digs deliciously into Draco’s back, and Longbottom’s mouth is making him melt, and not one single button or buckle has come undone. Any of the men Draco has slept with since leaving Hogwarts – which is all the men he’s slept with ever, since he spent his school years cheerfully destroying his future – would have been inside him within five minutes of opening the door. Longbottom hasn’t even untucked his shirt yet.  
  
Draco _whines_ , high and needy, and Longbottom’s only response is to press closer still, restricting his range of motion even further, and press his thumb into the hinge of Draco’s jaw. It forces his mouth to open more. Draco’s jaw aches. It’s helplessly, ruthlessly hot, what Longbottom’s doing to him. The other man licks at the roof of his mouth, like Draco is a fucking _treat_ , and Draco...  
  
Draco is making wet, desperate and filthy noises, far too far gone to be embarrassed, when Longbottom takes that beautiful mouth away and looks down at him with a laugh that is only slightly breathless.  
  
“Look at you, Malfoy,” he says. “You’re a mess.”  
  
That’s enough for Draco to get himself a bit under control, somehow. Longbottom has been calling him Draco all night, but now, when he’s come completely undone in this disaster of a cottage, now, they’re back to surnames?  
  
“Well,” he says, looking around the room with dignity, “you’d know all about messes, wouldn’t you, Neville?” His sneer, unfortunately, dissolves into a whimper when Neville (and he won’t, he won’t call him Longbottom any more, not even in his thoughts) rocks his hips, just once, into Draco’s. Their heights are off enough that Neville’s erection grinds against Draco’s abdomen, and the feel of it makes his mouth water.  
  
“You don’t like my house?” Neville asks mildly. “I wasn’t planning on having company, you know, but I can do a bit of a tidy if it bothers you.” And he actually begins to ease away from Draco.  
  
Draco grabs desperately at the other man’s arms and tries to scoff. It sounds more like a half-choked yowl. “Oh, you _would_ ,” he says scathingly. “You _would_ just...just start something like this and not finish it. Is this how Griffindors fuck? All...all sloppy and brutish and with no...no work ethic?”  
  
Neville’s smile is wider now, and it’s infuriating. How can he behave so calmly when Draco can _feel_ how excited he is? He ought to be gagging for it, and he’s just...chuckling.  
  
And even though he knows it’s a mistake, even though he knows he’s going to go too far and ruin this, Draco keeps talking. “Do you even know what you’re doing?” he asks. “Because from here it looks like you’re a bumbling oaf with no finesse. You’ve got _me_ here in front of you, willing and ready, and you just...just... _kiss_ mmph!”  
  
Neville, in response to this extraordinary display of rudeness, ducks his head and kisses Draco _again_ , the hand on Draco’s ass now kneading firmly and wonderfully into the flesh there. Draco feels like a delicacy, and he fucking loves it, fucking loves all of this; he’d be happy to let Neville kiss him here in this kitchen until they both die of dehydration.  
  
When Neville pulls away this time it is with extreme reluctance, and he replaces his lips almost immediately with two fingers of the hand holding Draco’s jaw. The pads of them press gently past Draco’s teeth and onto his tongue.  
  
“Sorry,” Neville says, not sounding very sorry at all. “I’m just really enjoying your mouth right now.”  
  
The way he says this makes it sound like he’s enjoying not just kissing Draco, but listening to him as well. And Draco isn’t an idiot; he knows how unpleasant he’s being. He knows where his value lies, and it’s in the flexibility of his tongue, not its sharpness. That’s part of what makes him do it, of course – the awful vulnerability he suddenly feels. It’s also the fact that he’s still a little drunk. Mostly, though, Draco does it because his instincts have always, always steered him towards self-destruction.  
  
He bites Neville’s fingers. Hard.  
  
The noise Neville makes does not belong to a man who is, in any way, shape, or form, calm. It is shocked, broken groan, and as it escapes him, Neville bucks his hips against Draco and collapses forward, pressing his open mouth against Draco’s and _licking_ at the teeth around his fingers. Draco can feel the hand on his face tremble, but Neville isn’t even trying to pull away.  
  
Draco is still grinding his teeth. He isn’t being remotely gentle – he’s expecting to taste blood at any moment – and Neville seems to love it. He’s babbling against Draco’s mouth, nonsensical, lovely things. “Fuck, your _mouth_ , Draco, that’s right, that’s so good. Merlin, yes, you’re such a beautiful little shit...”  
  
And then he’s bending his knees just a little, so their cocks, through too many layers of fabric, are lined up, and thrusting so sweetly against Draco, so easily and giving, as if he hasn’t been holding back this entire time, that Draco stops biting down and gasps. Neville doesn’t withdraw his fingers. He strokes Draco’s tongue, still messily kissing the edges of his mouth, and groans again, one more time, sounding completely wrecked.  
  
Then he pulls away and takes a half step back, still holding Draco at the hip, and looks at his hand. There’s a smear of blood there.  
  
Draco clears his throat. He considers apologizing. He is very, very bad at apologizing, but he thinks he could bring himself to do it if it means he’ll still get laid tonight. He runs his tongue along the edge of his teeth, feeling for the salt of Neville’s blood there. He probably won’t look very sorry with red teeth. But Neville’s eyes flick to his mouth, and he knows the other man has seen.  
  
“Ok,” Neville says. His voice is low.  
  
“Ok?” Draco asks. His eyes dart to the door. How quickly can he leave, if things are about to get ugly?  
  
“Ok.” Neville says again. He reaches out with his bloody hand and closes it around Draco’s wrist. “I think I’d better take you upstairs and see how well I can fuck you.”  
  
To Draco’s surprise, they really do take the rickety, spiral stairs, pausing every few steps so that Neville can run appreciative hands over Draco’s ass, his thighs, into his hair. It’s maddening. The third time it happens he is almost ready to bite the other man again.  
  
“Is there a reason we aren’t apparating?” he asks acerbically.  
  
“No good at it,” Neville says, not sounding at all embarrassed.  
  
Draco can’t imagine admitting that sort of failing to anyone, let alone a casual fuck. What is wrong with this man? “Oh,” he says. “Well. I mean...I’m hardly _surprised_.”  
  
Neville grins and tows Draco the rest of the way up the stairs.  
  
The second storey of Neville’s cottage is even smaller than the first, the walls sloping ever so slightly inwards as they rise. Neville’s bed takes up most of the room, set just to the side of the staircase and facing a big, curved window that utilizes nearly half the wall space. The view, of course, is almost entirely blocked by greenery. There’s a little ladder, which Draco assumes leads up to the roof garden, next to the window. The bed is...small. Only slightly less rickety than the stairs. It is not, all in all, a vast improvement on the alley.  
  
“Oh, good lord,” Draco says. And then he bites his tongue (not nearly as hard as he bit Neville’s fingers), because he really, _really_ does not want to mess this up for himself.  
  
“Sorry,” Neville says. He really does sound sorry this time. And a little breathless. Draco turns to look at the other man and sees that Neville is looking annoyingly put-together, still. His hair is unmussed, the just-kissed swelling of his lips has already faded, and his face is only a very little flushed. His shirt is just a touch wrinkled.  
  
“Weren’t you always a catastrophe in school?” he hears himself ask. “Always red in the face and smudged and spilling everything? What _happened_ to you?”  
  
“I grew up,” Neville says. He’s reaching for Draco again, and Draco feels, for the first time since Neville took his elbow in the pub, a trace of panic. Like when he was learning to ride a broom back at the manor, and he’d looked down suddenly to realize how very far away the ground had gotten. “I seem to remember you being pretty polished back then,” Neville finishes, which Draco takes to mean that his own hair is decidedly mussed, his own lips swollen and pink. His shirt, somewhere on the staircase, has been pulled out from his trousers at the back.  
  
Draco puts a hand up to fix it, but Neville’s hands have gotten there first, and they’re sliding up to cradle the small of his back. Warm, rough hands. Draco does not feel as if he can afford to let those hands touch him just now. So he does what he’s done a lot of this last year: he sinks to his knees and raises his hands to the other man’s belt.  
  
It is gratifying to see how quickly Neville freezes in place, hands wavering in the air in front of him as if he’s afraid to move.  
  
Draco nuzzles at the front of Neville’s trousers as he undoes the belt buckle and eases a hand inside. Neville’s cock...he pulls it out, sits back on his heels so as to look properly.  
  
It is not especially long, but it is easily the thickest Draco’s ever seen. It is heavy in his hand, already fully erect, and...there are freckles on it. Two along the shaft and one just slightly off-centre on the head. Something inside Draco lurches at the sight of those freckles.  
  
Before he can think better of it, he leans forward and presses a quick kiss to each of them, first on the head, and then, ducking a little, the shaft. Neville twitches in his grip.  
  
“And you’re going to stuff this thing down my throat somehow,” Draco says, “are you?”  
  
One of those floating hands comes to rest in his hair. With the other Neville grips the base of his own cock, traces the spongy head of it along Draco’s bottom lip.  
  
“Maybe,” he says. “Maybe I just want you to put your pretty mouth on it. Your really _sharp_ pretty mouth.”  
  
Draco smiles. He leans forward, letting Neville’s cock slide along his face as he goes, and laps at where the other man’s fist is steadying it. Neville’s skin tastes like salt. It’s warm and a little bitter. His hand can’t quite close around the base of his cock, and it’s gorgeous, but Draco isn’t going to say that. Instead he laves with a flat tongue along Neville’s fingers, getting them sloppy and slick with his spit, before moving on to one side of the shaft. It throbs against his mouth. Neville’s fist is pumping now, slowly, nudging Draco’s face. His other hand is in Draco’s hair, is petting it gently.  
  
Draco pulls his lips back. He mouths softly at Neville’s shaft again, and then, deliberately and firmly, _stupidly_ , lets his teeth scrape along the flesh there. He is rewarded with another of those deep, shocked groans.  
  
The hand in Draco’s hair is suddenly twisting into a hard fist, and the other is back on Draco’s jaw, roughly forcing it open, and then...his lips are stretching around this gorgeous, thick cock. Neville is still gasping, and his hips spasm forward – Draco just has time to relax his jaw before his throat is invaded.  
  
It’s too thick. His jaw is immediately strained, and there’s no room for him to use his tongue – not until Neville thrusts again, and Draco just has time, before he’s stuffed full again, to swirl around the tip. The grip on his hair is painful, and it’s all quite rough, and it’s exactly right.  
  
But, “I’m sorry,” Neville gasps, and tries to pull out.  
  
Draco scowls. He wraps his arms around Neville’s thighs, grips the other man by the buttocks, hollows his cheeks, and _sucks_. There’s a muffled curse from above him as Draco lets himself sink all the way down, until his nose is resting against Neville’s abdomen and his throat is entirely, uncomfortably, full. Then, just to make sure Neville gets the idea, he presses his teeth just ever so slightly into the shaft.  
  
“Fuck!” Both of Neville’s hands are in his hair, tearing at it, and he makes a sound like a sob and grinds into Draco’s face. He’s not fucking it so much as just _inhabiting_ it. Colonizing Draco’s throat. Draco knows he’s drooling – his chin feels wet, and his eyes are streaming too, but Neville keeps his face pinned there, thrusting so shallowly it’s almost like he’s not moving at all, and the minutes drag on. Draco feels so small, so perfectly, wonderfully helpless, his throat fluttering around this intrusion, pinned and stuffed and _cherished_.  
  
And then Neville is pulling him off, yanking so hard on his hair that Draco, reluctantly, has to go. There are black spots in front of his eyes, and he blinks them away, gasping a little, and tries to move forward again.  
  
Neville is having none of it.  
  
“Wait, wait,” he’s saying. “Stop.”  
  
Draco blinks up at him. “Did I,” he says, and then stops. His voice sounds raw, and it isn’t just from how thoroughly Neville just ravaged his throat. “Did you not like that?”  
  
Neville laughs. It sounds a little unhinged.  
  
Draco wipes the back of his hand across his sloppy, vicious mouth. He tries to get up, but he’s actually a little dizzy, and has to sit down on the edge of the bed. “I can go,” he says. “I didn’t mean...” but he doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. He _did_ mean to bite Neville’s cock. He meant it very much.  
  
“No.” Neville’s hands are on him again, gentle, stroking. He’s unbuttoning Draco’s shirt. Finally. “No, you’re good. You’re so good. Draco, I liked it so fucking much. But I don’t want to come down your throat.” There’s a note of amusement to his voice again. “I think I promised I’d fuck you.”  
  
There is more kissing, then, but it’s alright because Neville is finally, finally undressing him, petting Draco’s shoulders as he eases the fabric down them, pressing Draco into the bed so he can work the trousers over his bony hips. Draco feels deeply, wonderfully relaxed. He cants his hips upward to help Neville, arches against the cool sheets as Neville’s tongue strokes gently into his mouth. He opens for it.  
  
“You’re gorgeous,” the other man is saying. “You were always so gorgeous, Malfoy. Fuck, look at you.”  
  
Draco isn’t gorgeous. He’s pointy and snarky and far too skinny. But people get confused, because he’s so good at this. He’s so good at lying back and taking what they give him – all their anger and their need and pent-up grief. He can take it and take it and take it, so sweet and good and obedient that whoever’s fucking him forgets, for a little while, that he’s ugly.  
  
Except that Draco hasn’t exactly been obedient so far, and Neville is still looking at him like he hung the moon. It almost hurts.  
  
“How do you feel about rimming?”  
  
Draco, preoccupied with obedience, doesn’t wrinkle his nose. He likes the look on Neville’s face, and he wants to keep it there. The idea isn’t _offensive_ to him, exactly.  
  
“Love it,” he says, licking his lips.  
  
And then his legs are up and over Neville’s shoulders, and Neville is looking at him. Not his face, or even his cock, which is hard and pink and weeping, but his _hole_.  
  
Draco feels extremely exposed. One of his knees slips down and catches in the crook of Neville’s elbow, and Neville, still looking awe-struck, lets it slide free, and rolls Draco over.  
  
“Merlin,” he says.  
  
Draco grins against the sheets. They’re poor quality, but they smell fresh and clean, and Neville is lifting him up by the hips, warm hands sliding around to pull his ass cheeks apart.  
  
Nobody’s ever done this to Draco. Lubrication and loosening spells, sure, the rough scissoring of fingers, yes. But this? Never. When he’s done it to other men, they usually jerk off while they sit heavy on his face, and come in his hair. There’s a certain rough charm to it, but the act itself doesn’t get him off.  
  
Neville, though, is in his own private world back there. When Draco glances over his shoulder he can see that the other man is rapt.  
  
“Are you just going to stare?” he asks. “I understand maybe you’ve never seen an ass before, but...”  
  
Neville, leans forward and bites Draco lightly, just where his ass cheek meets his thigh. Draco yelps. And then he squirms in surprise, because that warm, wet mouth has closed around his hole, and Neville is _sucking_ at it. It feels...incredibly intense. Draco burrows his face into the sheets, blushing hard, and writhes, not sure whether he’s trying to get away from that mouth or closer to it. Neville’s hands are like iron on his hips. The other man’s entire face is buried between his ass cheeks – he can feel Neville breathing hard through his nose, like he’s trying to _inhale_ Draco – and then Neville’s tongue begins to lick broad, flat strokes against Draco’s opening.  
  
Draco thrusts against the air, or tries to. Neville, again, has him somehow immobile, and it is the sweetest torture to be held so easily, held like it’s nothing. He can feel the first ring of his muscles relaxing against the firm press of Neville’s tongue, and it’s all so wet and gentle that he doesn’t know what to do with himself. When the other man goes back to sucking, letting just the barest hint of his teeth nip at Draco’s rim, Draco bites hard at his own forearm. When he can speak again he says, over his shoulder, between gasps, “You...you _would_ be good at this, wouldn’t you? Always so eager to please, always so desperate for praise, not minding at all how dirty you have to get your mouth...” He’s describing himself, not Neville, but the other man groans into his ass, wraps one arm more tightly around Draco’s waist, and, without taking his mouth away, brings his other arm back and smacks Draco once, quite hard, on the upper thigh, right where he bit.  
  
“Oh god,” Draco says. His cock twitches hard enough that it nudges into his own stomach, leaving a smear of moisture. “Yes,” he says, pushing his ass back towards Neville’s mouth. “Yes, do that, please. You brute.” Neville does it again. His tongue is inside Draco now, stroking against the inner muscles, and Draco can feel himself relaxing for Neville, opening for him. His thigh stings. He feels hot and loose all over.  
  
Neville pulls his wet mouth away, replaces it with two fingers, which, with a muttered lubrication charm from Neville, slide easily into Draco. “You’re such a _rude_ little thing,” he whispers as he curls them down, groping for a second and then pressing against Draco’s prostate, and Draco whines into his forearm, hips jerking. “Such a gorgeous, messy, rude little bitch,” Neville tells him, “and I want you to come for me, Draco. Can you be good and come for me?”  
  
Draco opens his mouth to say that he can’t, of course he can’t, pinned up in the air like this with those slick fingers – three now, when did that happen? – sliding in and out of his ass, he’s too boneless and wrung-out to come, this isn’t enough, not nearly enough to get him there...but then Neville has leaned forward and is opening his mouth, biting hard into the globe of Draco’s ass, right above those slowly pumping fingers, and Draco is coming, sobbing against the coarse sheets, spilling onto his own stomach. He clenches so hard around Neville’s fingers that he dimly hears the other man curse, but Draco’s whole body is pulsing with pleasure, deep, piercing waves of it.  
  
When he’s entirely, gloriously spent, Neville lowers him gently onto the bed. He’s straddling Draco’s thighs, now, and his hands stroke Draco from shoulder to hip and back up. They’re warm and deliciously rough, and Draco sort of wants to fall asleep now. He’s pretty sure Neville would let him – those hands aren’t insistent or pushy – but there’s still that part of Draco that doesn’t know when to quit. So he rolls his head to one side to glance languorously back at Neville.  
  
“Were you born in a _barn_ , Longbottom?” he asks, as if he hasn’t just come untouched for the first time in his life. “Is that what you call fucking? I’m sorry to have to spell this out for you, but you are expected to actually put that fat cock _inside_ me at some point.” And, to get the point across a little more clearly, he wiggles his ass back and up – even though he’s still quite effectively pinned down, and apparently this is a _thing_ for Neville, to wedge Draco into small spaces and torment him – until it’s nudging the blunt tip of Neville’s cock.  
  
Draco swallows. It feels very, very large, pressing up against him. There doesn’t seem to be much taper to it at all. Neville’s hands are on Draco’s upper arms now, gently but firmly holding his torso in place, and he thrusts just a little, so the head is stretching at Draco’s entrance. Not inside at all, just...holding him open. It’s maddening.  
  
“Are you sure?” Neville asks. “Because you look pretty wrung out. I can just let you sleep.”  
  
Draco, who is not at all sure he doesn’t want to be left to sleep, uses the small amount of leverage he’s got to force himself backwards and impale himself, just a little, onto Neville’s cock. It burns. Neville, gratifyingly, hisses, and his hands clutch at Draco’s biceps. “Alright,” he says. And he _still_ sounds amused. He presses in a little deeper, and Draco is questioning the wisdom of this decision already – there’s so _much_ of it – and transfers both of Draco’s arms to one hand, pinning them to the bed above Draco’s body. His other hand he places against the small of Draco’s back, rubbing little circles there as he pushes a few inches deeper. It should feel ridiculous and patronizing, but Draco finds it, actually, really soothing.  
  
“Breathe,” Neville tells him. “Or I’ll put my mouth back down there and lick you open even more, until you’re so sloppy and loose that you can’t even feel me... _Merlin_ , Draco, your ass is so good...would you like that? Do you want me to fuck you with my tongue some more?”  
  
“No,” Draco pants. He can’t move like this, legs pinned together between Neville’s thighs, and he knows it’s got to be tighter this way, has no idea at all how it’s going to work, but he’s starting to want it. The burn is mesmerizing. So are the little grunts Neville is making, the small, throaty animal noises that escape as he thrusts relentlessly, working Draco wide, wide open.  
  
There’s a pillow beside Draco’s head and he turns his face into it, lets his mouth go slack against the fabric like somehow that will help. It does, actually, feel like it’s all connected, like Neville is invading his entire body with that slow, blunt force.  
  
By the time Neville is all the way in, he’s partially collapsed on top of Draco, the weight of him crushing and lovely, and Draco is very, very hard again. He ruts against the mattress, into a slick spot that he knows must be his own come, mouths at the pillow and whimpers.  
  
Neville does, in fact, know how to fuck him. The slow roll of his hips is exquisite, bruising, and when he angles just a little down, his cock punches into Draco’s prostate, and Draco keens.  
  
“You’re so good,” Neville is saying, and he’s moving faster now, but it’s still so controlled. Draco wants to bite him again, wants to make this hard and painful, but it’s so, so good that he can’t, quite, move his head that far. “Coming for me and then begging for my cock like that,” Neville says. His mouth is against Dracos ear now. “You look so pretty when you’re writhing on it like this, Draco. I wish you could see yourself. Stuffed so full. Being so good.” The movement of his hips is just a little erratic now, and Draco loves that. He loves it even more when Neville somehow works his free hand under their bodies and closes his fingers around Draco’s poor, aching cock, and _squeezes_. There’s not enough room for him to do anything else, but his hand is messy with lube, and his grip is tight, and Draco is crying.  
  
“You deserve this,” Neville chokes out, fucking hard into the wreck of Draco’s ass. “You deserve to feel so good, Draco, you’re gorgeous and you need this, and you’re good, you’re good, you’re good.” He pistons his hips with each statement, like he’s trying to fuck his words into Draco.  
  
Draco squeezes his eyes shut and trembles, and he can feel Neville’s cock jerking inside him, knows that the other man is coming, spilling into him, and he’s so close. He pushes his ass back as Neville clutches at him, both of them trying to press even deeper, and Neville says, gasping, like it’s being pulled from him, he says, “You’re _perfect_.”  
  
And Draco comes for the second time, so hard and sudden that he blacks out for a few seconds.  
  
Afterwards, Neville rolls on his side and strokes long, soothing lines down Draco’s flank, showers him with praise that Draco feels far, far too raw to hear, and then...with some muddled apologies, falls into a fast, deep sleep.  
  
Draco waits. Sticky and sore and smeared with his own tears, he waits until Neville begins, softly, to snore. Then he squirms out from under the other man’s arm and gropes for his wand, casts a few gentle cleansing charms over both of them. It’s dark in the little loft room, but one of the window plants has bloomed into a strange, glowing lily, and he can see Neville’s face, slack with sleep, in the gleam. He looks entirely wholesome and young. His cock, curled soft and vulnerable against his thigh, has three freckles on it.  
  
Draco goes to the window. Keeping a careful distance from the greenery, he wraps his arms around his ribs and stares out onto the muggle street below. His two orgasms seem to have burned most of the alcohol out of his system, and the night feels wild and surreal.  
  
“What the fuck,” he whispers. He tightens his arms. He’s still crying, head tilted down, and tears are dripping off the end of his pointed nose. He can’t seem to stop. He feels very much as though his body is trying to fly apart, and he digs his fingers into his sides until he knows they’ll leave marks.  
  
It’s a long time before he can control himself enough to crawl back into Neville’s tiny bed, press his body up against that solid, warm one, and go to sleep.


End file.
